


Yikes

by cognitiveandbehavioraltorture



Category: Mother 3
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Incest, I’m sorry I wrote this but sometimes you gotta, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29255409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognitiveandbehavioraltorture/pseuds/cognitiveandbehavioraltorture
Summary: Lucas missed Claus, and a psychic fever comes at a bad time.
Relationships: Claus/Lucas (Mother 3)
Kudos: 9





	Yikes

**Author's Note:**

> They’re of age in this. I don't ship it but sometimes you sexualize pain and it gets messy. Don't read this if you'll be triggered by anything listed in the tags.  
> This is my first work.

The figure in the gray helmet was a force to be reckoned with, that much was for certain. A stain bloomed, dark and thick like sweet red syrup, from Lucas' shoulder.

The strange cannon affixed to the masked commander's arm had fired off a blast that cut through him so medically, so cleanly. His skin, muscles, bone even, it ripped straight through. Like his body was made of nothing more substantial than the paper of a shoji screen. Like his body was as tearable as his mind had felt. Duster screamed, raw and guttural. Lucas snapped out of it, and was alerted to the fact that he was losing blood fast. He probably wouldn't have realized it otherwise. Too busy looking at the commander's hair, and the shape of his shoulders... they felt so familiar. Wasn't it nice to see again?

Lucas had to run. This wasn't a question.

"I- have to go take care of this, ok? I'm just gonna go heal up really quickly, and I'll be right back," he said as his hands trembled, his voice caught and tangled in his mouth.

"I have enough energy left, I can take care of you!" Kumatora readied something defensive, something to buff them up, but the uniformed boy across the rooftop had clearly already bought himself enough time and was preparing to take off. She looked back at Lucas, and her eyes met those of a crazed, cornered, and desperate animal. Her brow furrowed. Duster collected himself, considered taking out his wall-staples, but it just didn't seem right to try to keep their enemy immobile. Not now.

"No, Kumatora. Please, don't worry. I can do it, I really just... I just need a second." In the split-second that it took for Kumatora to look back around, the masked man unfolded his black wings and shot off into the clear blue sky, leaving the party to lick their wounds on the harsh grey pavement below.

"Let him go," intoned Duster, lowering his hoarse voice to a whisper. "He's been through a lot, and he won't just let himself bleed out. You know that." Kumatora acquiesced.

"Come back to the roof once you've pulled yourself together, ok? We can talk about what to do from here. I'm sorry, Lucas."

But Lucas was already gone.

His buckling legs took him into the elevator, down one floor, into the dead room they'd just come from. Bolted all the doors. Back into the corner of the room, tucked behind all the shelves of coiled tubing and equipment needed to maintain the generator that they had so efficiently destroyed. His breath was coming fast and ragged, and the feverish feeling, all too known to him, hit him now. He burned up inside, a thin sheen of sweat starting to stick to his skin, making him feel ill and clammy. He pulled at his shirt, desperate for some air against him, peeling it away from the gashes in not only his shoulder, but his side too. He was torn up.

Lucas was just in pain. But it was a pain he wanted to pull himself into, retreat into like a safe place. As much as he had to heal, he wanted to feel this hurt. Wanted it to claim him like it had claimed him for so long in so many invisible, insidious ways. The pain was annihilating and that was just... what he wanted right now. Before he could even really register it, he had his shirt pulled up and his shorts around one ankle, his legs splayed across the ground where he had slid down, his back against the hard wall. He licked his hand and pressed it against his wound, letting the screaming saltwater sting run through him, letting his own hot blood coat his fingers. Then he started to pump. Slippery with his own precome and rich redness, he bucked into his palm. A choked groan escaped his lips, and another, until, all alone in the room, he was panting.

Duster and Kumatora sat on the roof, idly petting Boney, sharing the bread that Duster kept in his inventory for emergencies.

"He has to know. He can't not know," Kumatora murmured from her crosslegged position, crunching on walnuts. Duster scratched at his stubbly chin, searching for the words.

"Absolutely. I think we really need to be gentle with him, okay? Right now what he needs the most is patience and support. We have to let him work through this, and give him time."

Lucas leaned heavily against the wall, supporting himself as he coated his other hand in his blood, which was beginning to pool on the ground, soak his shorts. As he palmed himself with one hand, he breached himself with a finger, two fingers, working away at the smooth expanse inside him. His jaw, so often clenched, went slack. Disappointing that this was what it took, he thought. Claus wouldn't resort to pawing at himself in order to fight through this world. Claus... he couldn't help but think about his brother. He was always strong and it was as horrible to him now as it was cool when they were little, when he was afraid of the dark instead of what was in it. Lucas tried to just wipe out his thoughts, just let himself do what he was doing without thinking. But it all came back to Claus. 

"Oh, Claus," he keened, battered knees knocking as he hit a sweet spot inside himself. "Claus, Claus, bro, I'm so happy, it feels so good-" and this sent him over the edge, tightly gripping himself in his fist and giving one final pump, one last thrust of his fingers before he lost it, creamy whiteness mixing with the wine-dark puddle. There were a few blissful seconds before he slumped sideways with exhaustion. Laying in this pool of his own visceral fluids, he used Lifeup Beta, letting his wounds close over before his eyelids shut and he sank into a stupor, curled up and bloody as he was born.


End file.
